


You Push All My Buttons

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Jealousy, Shameless Smut, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 21:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: Jaime’s a famous action hero. Brienne is the stunt coordinator on his latest movie. She’s hated him since the moment they met, and the feeling is mutual. But there are ways to work out their aggression.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 44
Kudos: 592





	You Push All My Buttons

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "True Love" by Pink ft. Lily Allen

Jaime ducked as a pool cue sliced the air directly over his head, lunging forward to aim a punch at his attacker’s belly. His fist missed his target by barely an inch, and he dodged to avoid another blow aimed at his head. “Careful with the face,” he growled. 

“Wouldn’t want to ruin your moneymaker,” Brienne snarled, breathing hard. 

_ Don’t worry, I can’t make you any uglier,  _ he thought savagely, but didn’t say. It wasn’t true, and it would hurt more than any blow he landed tonight.

There were a lot of things Jaime Lannister did well. Clinging to the landing skid of a helicopter high in the air. Kissing a woman he barely knew as if he could not breathe a moment longer without her lips on his. Delivering even the most banal lines with enough charm to dampen panties across the seven kingdoms and beyond. And he was a damned fine fighter.

But he was terrible at playing nice. Ask any of his co-stars on camera and they would tell you how professional Jaime was, how much they learned from working with the legendary action hero, how they hoped to work together again. Off camera, they complained about his arrogance, his sarcastic comments, his unrelenting perfectionism. Jaime knew all of this and never once considered changing his behavior. He had to be doing something right. The crews he worked with sang his praises. He was respectful of them and their work, stood up for them when needed. They genuinely enjoyed working with him. 

The exception to that rule spun to his right and slapped the pool cue against his thigh. Hard. Brienne Tarth grinned fiercely. 

“Sweet Mother, you’re going to pay for that,” Jaime cursed.

“Don’t make me wait next time,” came the swift retort as she danced out of his reach. 

True, Jaime had arrived twenty minutes late for rehearsal, but that was only so he wouldn’t have to watch his stunt coordinator rehearse with his irritatingly young co-star, Jon Snow. The studio was quite hot on him, no surprise since the boy’s dark good looks and puppyish demeanor apparently drove teenage girls into raptures. He was actually quite good at the action work, though his comic timing was wretched. 

Jaime prided himself on doing his own stunts, even coming back after an on-set accident that nearly cost him his right hand. But Brienne wasn’t interested in learning from his experience, or collaborating in any way. She was still upset, try as she might to pretend she wasn’t, that he’d mistaken her for a man at their first meeting. He’d only made it worse when he objected to her doubling for him in a motorcycle sequence he really wanted to do. Cat Stark had sided with Brienne, of course, and Jaime had humbled himself as he rarely did by apologizing.

Most people would have accepted his smooth words and slightly sheepish smile, but they’d gotten off on the wrong foot and Brienne was determined to keep it that way. She remained prickly, aloof, calling him  _ Mr. Lannister  _ no matter how often he corrected her, stern as an ancient septa despite her youth. She couldn’t be more than thirty, green as grass compared to him and it galled him that she didn’t even pretend to respect him. He’d tried to keep things professional, but it seemed he’d met his match in perfectionism. Brienne would rehearse until they were both too exhausted to throw an accurate punch, and still not be satisfied. By the end of their sessions, Jaime was too riled up to hold his tongue.

And it pleased him in a deep, primal way, watching Brienne’s blue eyes flash with annoyance or outrage. It was better than the indifference she showed him on-set and in meetings with the stunt crew. Their rehearsals were the best part of his day on this tiresome shoot. Two months in Winterfell, so bloody cold his balls had practically retreated into his body, so bloody boring he was in real danger of following his siblings into alcoholism. But this film completed his contract with Winterfell Productions, and hopefully he’d never have to work with Cat Stark again. 

“Should I come twenty minutes early next time, so I can watch you eye fuck Jon?” Jaime darted forward and yanked the pool cue from Brienne’s hand. She could stop him, if the script didn’t call for him to take it. But it did, so he took the cue and spun it toward her, landing a harder than necessary strike against her ass. “Oops,” he said as she grimaced. 

“I do not—,” she sputtered. “Gods, why are you such an asshole?” She pretended to throw billiard balls at him, and Jaime ducked and dodged in the pre-arranged pattern. The Dornish actor playing a nameless villainous minion would be taunting him the whole time tomorrow, while his buddy held Jaime’s struggling love interest. Brienne rarely bothered with the lines, providing no distraction from the physical work. 

And Jaime loathed watching Jon grapple and spar with Brienne, her husky voice praising him at every opportunity. Tonight Jaime had made bloody sure he arrived late enough to miss watching Brienne pin stocky young Jon Snow to the mats over and over, both panting with exertion. He’d lingered over dinner with his brother, laughing when Tyrion interrupted his rant about Brienne and Jon with a blunt suggestion that he needed to get laid. No, Jaime needed to finish shooting and get out of Winterfell before Brienne drove him insane.

“You’re such a quick learner, Jon. This is going to look so good on camera, Jon,” Jaime simpered, making his voice much higher than Brienne’s. “Just fuck him and get it over with.” He thrust the pool cue at her again.

She snatched it away effortlessly, pretended to break it over her thigh and tossed it away. It was the sixth time through tonight, maybe the seventh? Jaime had lost track. All he knew was that she wasn’t satisfied with his performance yet. Jaime never met her expectations. Until now, all he’d heard tonight were corrections and her clipped, “Again.” They’d reset, repeat each sequence for the next day’s shooting until Jaime was sore and seething. He would have a nasty bruise on his thigh tomorrow. He hoped Brienne had one on that tight ass of hers. At least he wasn’t shooting the love scene for another ten days. His character’s love interest was young enough to be his daughter, and according to the script Jaime was going to strip Margaery Tyrell, Westeros’ sweetheart and a former child actor desperate for more adult roles, completely nude on camera and pretend to fuck her against the wall, his pale ass on full display. 

“Jon is totally intimidated by you! If I didn’t praise him he’d cry in his room every night,” she said with an exasperated huff, dodging behind a table. “If anyone’s eye fucking, it’s you and Margaery.” 

On every press junket, a pretty young reporter would ask if filming sex scenes turned him on. The answer was always a curt  _ no _ , it was deeply unsexy to be naked in a roomful of people while wearing a sock over his dick, the director just off-camera whispering directions. He wasn’t about to admit that lately stunt rehearsal revved his motor more than any sex scene ever had. 

“And I want to gargle with bleach every time I kiss her. It’s called acting, Brienne. I have two Golden Globes and an Aegon, for fuck’s sake,” Jaime countered. He chased her around the table and lunged at Brienne again, counting his steps as she fell back, dancing out of his reach. He picked up a bottle on the next table. Tomorrow he’d be doing this with Daemon Sand in a bar, dodging between pool tables while Jon fought a stocky ginger Wildling to save his own petite, scantily-clad love interest. He and Daemon had rehearsed earlier, but Brienne insisted that Jaime needed more work. 

“You missed your cue with the bottle twice,” Brienne huffed. 

That was true, but, “You were touching me.” She’d been darting between he and Daemon, correcting their form and blocking, brushing light touches on his arms, his back, his legs. Bad enough that he was always aware of her on set lately, felt her eyes on him silently judging his every move. 

She snatched up a heavy beer stein. She aimed for his head but pulled back just enough that she missed him entirely. Carefully choreographed, every move calculated to look real enough on camera as long as they reacted like they’d been hit. Tomorrow he’d smash a prop bottle against Daemon’s head, the safety glass breaking spectacularly but harmlessly against his skull. 

“You find me that repulsive?” Brienne tried to hide it, but he still heard the tiny catch in her voice that said she expected it, and it wasn’t the first time.

“No!” he said a little too vehemently. She’d even popped up in his dreams, just once thank the Mother, but they’d been trapped in the Winterfell crypts, where the climactic fight scene would be filmed. The villain was supposed to toss a bound and defiant Margaery into the crypt with him and leave them to die in the dark with the unquiet ghosts of long ago Northmen. But in his dream, it was Brienne bound and frightened. She was naked. So was he. Jaime had woken up hard and hating himself.

That was not a memory he could share. Instead Jaime went on the attack as scripted. He kicked her, barely grazing her freckled stomach, and Brienne staggered back. She wore skin-tight leggings and a cropped tank top, the better for Jaime to aim his blows. Her freckled skin was flushed and glistening with sweat as she caught her balance and barreled toward him, arm raised to try to knock him out with the stein. Jaime was meant to whip the bottle around and smash it against her temple, though he always stopped short in rehearsal. Except the bottle spun out of his hand, shattering against the wall, and without the weight of it in his hand, Jaime’s fist connected with her head. 

A shocked grunt escaped her, and Jaime’s hand stung from the impact. “Oh, Gods, I didn’t—”

Her stein hit the floor, bouncing against the thick mats she’d laid down earlier. Big blue eyes glared at him in shocked fury. And then she lunged, hands slamming into his chest.

Jaime reeled, grabbing blindly at her to stop his fall. They tumbled to the mats in a tangle of limbs. Brienne fell heavy on him, knocking his breath from his lungs. Her endless legs straddled him, her sculpted arms and shoulders caged him in, her burning eyes glaring down. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded.

Air rushed back into Jaime’s lungs, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Her skin was burning hot where his hands touched her sides, clean sweat and citrus filling his nose, her body pressing down on his. He couldn’t move, his brain was buzzing. He hadn’t meant to hit her, his damn grip was still weak, he should’ve told her he was tiring. It was an accident, of course it was an accident. Why didn’t she realize it was an accident? 

“That’s the million dragon question, isn’t it?” he snapped, and immediately regretted it. He should tell her it was an accident, apologize again and beg her not to run to Cat or sue him or sell the story to the tabloids.

“If you can’t stand me touching you, just say so,” she grumbled, not nearly as angry now as she had been a moment ago. Just resigned. Brienne shifted, her hand slipping on the mat, and froze. 

And then Jaime felt it too. He was hard, pressed tightly between her thighs. He’d be embarrassed if his blood wasn’t running so hot, if he wasn’t hurt that she could believe even for a moment that he would purposely strike her. 

“Touch me all you like, sweetling. I have suggestions if you need a script to follow,” Jaime purred, his hands spanning her waist. He’d meant it as a taunt, to move them firmly back to their usual antagonism, but the truth of it burned through him. His head swam, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Seven save him, maybe Tyrion was right. 

Her lip curled, and Jaime knew what she’d say. She’d call him disgusting, spit her venom at him, make clear just how little she thought of him. Right now he deserved it but he couldn’t seem to stop. Men toyed with her. He’d seen it. He’d broken a key grip’s nose for it, not that she knew that. 

Jaime’s hands teased the waistband of her leggings, his fingertips brushing the curve of her ass. “Or maybe you just want me to touch you?” He canted his hips to get more friction, and had to bite back a groan. Any minute now, she would spring away, or wrap a hand around his throat. They’d both always enjoyed sparring, rehearsals or just messing around with the stunt crew, but this was a different level. Jaime didn’t want her to pull her punches here, he wanted her hands on him, wanted the passion she put into her work directed at him. 

Brienne’s face flushed darker, a mottled red that spread across her chest as well. He could mark her so easily, with his mouth, with his teeth. A love bite to match the token blooming on his thigh, and far more pleasurable. He’d been too long without a woman, years, longer than anyone would suspect, and his body wanted this one fiercely. 

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked, bending down until he could feel her breath against his lips. “Stop mocking me,” she hissed. 

“Mocking?” He laughed, a brittle thing. The world was mocking him, his body was mocking him. Jaime had shared the bed of the most beautiful woman in the seven kingdoms for nearly twenty years. Alas others had as well, not just the husband he’d known about all along. And when he broke away from her, no one else caught his interest. No one could compare. But this woman, taller than him, heavier, with her crooked nose and broad jaw and deep well of loathing for everything he was, oh, his cock was quite interested in her. 

“Brienne.” He slid one hand down to fully cup her ass, to hold her tight against his cock as he thrust against her. She gasped, and he grinned. “I can’t decide if I want to kick your ass or fuck it.”

“You’re not getting either,” she grit out, straightening and pressing her free hand to his chest, pinning him to the floor.

Jaime didn’t actually want to get up. All she’d done was give him better leverage. “What about your cunt? I can smell you, Brienne. You’re wet for me.” The musky scent of her mingled with sweat and dust and vinyl. It made his mouth water. He rolled his hips in a lazy rhythm, surprised but pleased that she hadn’t walked away yet. Had he always hated her, or had he always wanted her and hated wanting her? He couldn’t tell anymore, but Jaime definitely wanted her now. 

“You’re disgusting. Do you do this on every film?” she spat, fingers tightening in his hair.

He shook his head even though it hurt. The pain sharpened the pleasure. That’s what Cersei had always said, when he complained about her fingernails digging into his skin, her biting and slaps. “Never,” he swore. “Do you? I’ve seen some wild crew parties in my time.”

Jaime saw the pain in her eyes, and wished he’d hit that ginger asshole in the balls instead of the face. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” she insisted. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself, not him. That was fine. Jaime was nothing if not persuasive.

“What if I want you to? What if I’d do anything you wanted?” Jaime was breathing hard now, pleasure coiling low in his spine. A few more minutes and he’d come in his shorts like a green boy. He dared to slip one hand between them. Her leggings were soaked where his cock rubbed insistently over her clit. 

“You don’t.” Her voice was rough, her eyes darker than he’d ever seen them. “You can’t.”

“I do _ . _ Can’t you feel how much?” It was a relief to say it, to let himself acknowledge wanting her. He thrust up sharply, and a cry tore from her throat. He wanted that mouth, wanted to plunder her with lips and tongue and teeth. And Brienne was resisting. Her body wasn’t, but even in his lust-addled state he wasn’t a man who’d take what wasn’t freely given. 

“But you hate me,” she panted, starting to grind against him. 

“Only a little. Still want you,” he admitted with a smile. They were dry humping like teenagers, which should embarrass a man his age, but she felt good, moving with him. So good. The muscles of her thighs flexed against his hips, her nipples were stiff points against her cropped tank top. He wanted those in his mouth too. 

“I hate you,” she answered, but she didn’t sound nearly as sure about it as usual. Maybe it was the little shivers running through her, or the sweet tremor in her thighs. Her impending orgasm might take the edge off her loathing, at least for a few minutes. 

“Take off your leggings and come up here. You can hate me while you sit on my face,” he offered, his voice so rough and needy he barely recognized it. 

Brienne actually blanched at that, her eyes gone wide again. “What? Why?” 

“So I can fuck you with my tongue.” Jaime clasped both hands against her ass and yanked her up to his chest, even though her weight made it somewhat harder to breathe. He’d suck her through her leggings if he had to, work a hand under the lycra, whatever it took. The men who mocked and dismissed her were fools, but he would gladly feast on every bit of her that they’d scorned. 

“I’m all sweaty,” she protested, which wasn’t a  _ no _ . 

“Don’t care.” Jaime had once fucked Cersei not ten feet from where her husband was sleeping off a night of heavy drinking. This was hardly the dirtiest thing he’d ever done. 

Brienne, however, looked uncertain but tempted. So very tempted. So he took a chance and started working her leggings down until she had to choose whether to help or to slap his hands away. She helped, getting up on her knees and then awkwardly shucking off her leggings, taking her underwear and her shoes with them. She straddled his chest again, her teeth worrying her lower lip. She’d draw blood if she kept that up, but Jaime couldn’t concentrate on her face when her naked cunt was so close. 

The scent of her was stronger now, the blonde hair between her legs clearly wet. Cersei had always waxed herself bare. He liked this, liked how potent the scent of her arousal was here, how even naked she was still partially hidden from him. “You smell so good. Come here, I want to taste you.”

“You’re insane. You can’t say things like that,” she muttered, toying with his shirt. There was a damp smear on it. He would smell like sex when he returned to the hotel. Just the thought made his cock harder.

“Then shut me up,” he countered. Jaime didn’t wait for her to ask again why he wanted this. He had no answers other than that he did, that nothing in the entire world felt as necessary as this right now. She could berate him all she wanted tomorrow, as long as she let him slip his tongue inside her. He grasped her strong thighs, muscles tense under his hands, drew his fingers up and down the smooth, milk-pale expanse of her legs before he urged her forward. 

High above, her teeth still nibbled at her full lips, her messy blonde hair a halo around a face he could not honestly say was pretty. It was fascinating, in its way, even now a contradiction of stubbornness and desire. Brienne didn’t want to want him either. But she did.

Her face briefly disappeared from view as she shuffled up his body, finally planting her legs on either side of his head. Jaime cupped her ass again and pulled her closer. She did smell a bit like sweat up close, like the end of a long day, sharp and earthy. He nuzzled his stubbled jaw against her soft inner thigh. She groaned and ran her hand through his hair again, her fingernails lightly scratching his scalp. He hummed against her skin, and Brienne shivered. 

Jaime moved her where he wanted, the world blocked out by the towering column of Brienne, and slipped a hand between them. She startled when he touched her, the faintest tremble running through her thighs. All he could see was Brienne, all he could smell was Brienne, and when his tongue darted out, all he could taste was Brienne. Her slickness coated his tongue and lips as he licked a long stripe from her opening to her clit. He flicked the tip of his tongue around her clit, then blew on it gently, and her back arched. Her free hand moved restlessly over her chest, plucking at her nipples through her shirt. 

“Take off your shirt,” he directed, his lips back on her before he was done speaking. He kept licking her, nipping, sucking, watching her to see what she liked best. He couldn’t remember doing this with Cersei, learning her body, hearing her sounds for the first time. He was on fire, he was drunk on her, he wanted to please her so desperately he didn’t even care that she wasn’t touching him. 

She practically tore her tank top off, exposing miles of freckles and small firm breasts. She was panting, eyes closed, mouth open, muttering directions occasionally, unable to cede control even now. Her hand found his hair again, tugging gently at the strands and he moaned into her and she shuddered. Her other hand pinched and tugged on her nipples. Judging from the increasing fervor of her moans and cries, the desperate circling of her hips and the way she ground against his face, she was close to orgasm but not quite there.

“Jaime, please,” she whimpered, tugging his hair again. Jaime had complained bitterly when he was asked to grow out his hair for this film, but right now he was grateful for it. 

She didn’t have to tell him what she needed. Jaime slid two fingers inside her, felt her hot and slick around them, and groaned against her cunt. Her thighs tightened around his head as he sucked her clit. He was dizzy, could scarcely breathe, but he wouldn’t ask her to move. Not until she’d come on his tongue. Jaime worked with fingers and tongue in a swiftly rising tempo that had her shaking around him, her voice rising, her cunt growing impossibly wetter, until she cried out and shuddered around him, her fingers tight in his hair.

Finally, when he was seeing stars, Brienne’s thighs relaxed and she slid back to rest on his chest. His shirt was so damp it clung to his skin. His fingers slipped out of her, and she finally released his hair. Her eyes were still closed. 

Jaime swiped a hand over his mouth and chin. “Brienne,” he croaked, jaw more than a little sore but he didn’t care. She might be sated, but he was still vibrating with need.

Her eyes fluttered open, soft and dark, and took a moment to focus on him. He felt utterly wrecked. She reached down and touched his work-swollen lips with her fingertips. He tried to kiss her fingers but she pulled away.

Jaime reached up to touch her cheek, not caring that his fingers were still wet with her. “Brienne,” he said again. He didn’t hate her, hadn’t meant to hurt her, he’d tell her when his brain started working again. 

She glanced behind her, where his cock was straining against his shorts. He almost laughed. She was totally naked, an ancient warrior goddess riding into battle nude and glorious, and he was still fully clothed. She turned and shoved down his shorts, her hand wrapped around his cock, calloused palm stroking him and dragging a moan out of him. 

Jaime arched into her touch, but forced himself to grab her wrist. “I don’t want your hand.”

She scowled, and an answering smile curved his mouth unbidden. “I’m not blowing you, Lannister.” 

“Jaime,” he reminded her, his voice a low growl. “And I don’t want your mouth either. I want to fuck you. Or you can fuck me. Either works.”

Her scowl deepened, but her breathing got heavier, and she was still stroking him, her thumb rubbing over the tip on each upstroke. “Do you even have a condom? I don’t.”

Jaime was coming out of his skin. “No, but I’m clean.” He had all the test results to prove it, too, wherever his phone was. 

She was gnawing her lip again. “Right. Like men don’t lie about that.” But her hand never stopped stroking him. 

“Haven’t been with anyone in years,” he admitted, deliberately not assigning a number to that. He wouldn’t have even said that much if her rough hand wasn’t sliding over his cock at exactly the right speed and pressure to maximize his pleasure without letting him come. 

“Not those women at your premieres?” she asked.

“Photo ops. My agent sets them up.” Jaime reached out to touch her breast and she slapped his hand away. “Brienne, please.”

She shook her head. “I like you right where you are.” She squeezed him a little harder on the upstroke, twisting her wrist as she did it. 

“Oh, shit,” he swore. “That’s not fair.”

She chuckled darkly, and rubbed herself against him, hips moving slowly. 

He kept swearing, pleading, but she wouldn’t speed up, wouldn’t lick him like he begged her to. He finally snuck a hand between them to rub his thumb across her clit as she stroked him. If she could torture him, he could return the favor.

She didn’t slap him away this time, but she whispered, “Too sensitive,” and he stopped. Then she twisted to tug gently on his balls with her other hand and that was it, he was gone, back arching, pleasure shooting up his spine as she stroked him through his climax. 

He was just coming back to his senses when she released him, wiped her hand on his shorts and stood. He’d never seen a woman get dressed so fast, yanking up her leggings and cramming her underwear into a tiny pocket.

“Next time you’re horny just pick a girl in the hotel bar,” she said, pulling her tank top over her head. She looked flushed and fucked out and so annoyed with him. Gods, how was he going to get through the rest of this shoot? He couldn’t get it up again anytime soon, but he still wanted to lick every inch of her body. 

“I’m not the one who closed their eyes, Brienne. Knock on my door anytime.” Jaime tucked his dick back in his shorts, but there was cum on his clothes and he’d be lucky if no one noticed his walk of shame back to the hotel. Not that he felt even a moment’s shame over this. 

She shook her head and turned away, shoving her feet into her shoes and grabbing her backpack from a table near the door. She looked back briefly, her eyes tracking over the wreck she’d made of him, and left him there.

* * *

The scene went well. Daemon went down in a shower of glass, and Margaery leapt into Jaime’s arms and smothered him with frantic kisses. She tasted like stale coffee. All he could think about, other than not dropping the girl, was that he hadn’t kissed Brienne. 

She was lurking in the dimness outside the bright lights, supervising her stuntmen, but she never approached him. Jaime didn’t really expect her to. But he could feel her stormy eyes on him. 

He didn’t let himself hope she’d come to him later. But he wanted her to.

She didn’t. And then she insisted on rehearsing with Jon and Jaime together, so they were never alone. Jaime had to start wearing compression shorts under his pants so his hard-on would be less obvious. But he couldn’t help the way he looked at her. She blushed deliciously, and he just wanted her more. 

Jon, luckily, was totally oblivious, a puppy desperate for approval. He was thrilled to be rehearsing with Jaime, seemed to think it was a reward for his good work thus far, instead of a punishment for Jaime. At least Brienne hadn’t gone to Cat, hadn’t called the press or an attorney to let the world know that Jaime was at best unable to control his urges and at worst some kind of sexual predator. 

After the third night rehearsing with Jon, Jaime gave up. The fresh box of condoms in his nightstand taunted him, the two condoms jammed into his wallet just seemed to mock him. He settled back in his bed and flipped through his phone until he found videos from their rehearsals earlier in the shoot. Was it creepy to jerk off watching Brienne pummel stuntmen? Yes, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

He had his hand down his pants when someone knocked on his door. Tyrion had gone days ago, and it better not be Jon or Margaery. If it was Cat, well, he would be fired and the ensuing scandal would probably kill his career, at least for a few years. Just like that his erection was gone.

Jaime went to the door slowly, not exactly relishing any of those options. 

Brienne stood on the other side of the door, wearing a loose Storm’s End Thunder t-shirt and yet another pair of leggings. She looked nervous, her cheeks flushed. “You said you’d do anything I wanted?”

Jaime swallowed hard. “Yes.” Embarrassingly, his cock was already rising to attention. He moved out of the doorway, hoping she’d get the hint.

Brienne smiled a little shyly, and came into the room. She stood there, eyes darting around his room. It was probably a lot bigger than hers, the best this hotel had to offer, but it was still just a big room with an enormous bed and a hot tub over by the windows. There was an immense shower in the bathroom too, with a dizzying variety of jets and nozzles. In his weaker moments, Jaime had fantasized a lot about what he could do with Brienne in this room. 

Jaime groped blindly for the “do not disturb” sign, hung it on the doorknob and shut the door firmly, throwing the lock for good measure. “Your wish is my command,” he said lightly, in a mad bid to break the tension in the room. “But first, I do have one request.”

Brienne turned to him warily. “What?” 

“One kiss.” He tried not to sound pleading, but he was pretty sure he’d failed. 

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she gamely approached him, leaning in for a kiss. 

Jaime took full advantage, closing the distance between them until he could feel the heat of her skin against his, and only then did he kiss her. Slowly, licking her lower lip until she opened for him, and then deepening the kiss and putting his hands on her, drawing her flush against his body. Their tongues tangled, and they slowly stumbled together toward the bed.

He’d give her everything she wanted, and if it took all four weeks left on this film shoot, that was fine by him. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic now has a sequel. [Thirst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23486107)


End file.
